


this raging sea, these summer storms

by Atlanta_Black



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Arthur Finds Out About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Arthur Knows About Merlin's Magic (Merlin), Getting Together, Happy Ending, M/M, Magic Revealed, POV Multiple, Past Gwen/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin), merlin is a bit angry for some of this
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 00:00:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27944930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Atlanta_Black/pseuds/Atlanta_Black
Summary: “I have magic,” he whispers, turning to face Arthur. “I have magic, and I use it for you. Always for you.”He keeps his chin tilted up, his spine straight, and a storm stares back. Arthur’s eyes as dark and wild as the sea.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 277
Collections: Merlin Holidays 2020





	this raging sea, these summer storms

**Author's Note:**

  * For [queerofthedagger](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queerofthedagger/gifts).



> I hope you enjoy this as much as I enjoyed writing it <3
> 
> Thanks to the mods for all the hard work they put in to keep the fest going! <3

Arthur wouldn’t be able to tell you what causes the pieces to click together in his head, but the missing puzzle piece he hadn’t realized he was missing slots into place and leaves him reeling. He couldn’t tell you what prompts the realization, but now he has Merlin’s future lying in his hands, fragile as the glass figurines Morgana used to collect, and he isn’t sure what to do with it at all. 

It’s as if he’s been collecting the pieces in his head for years without even noticing. They click together and present him with a picture that, once seen, can’t be ignored. A picture of years and years of lies and deception, but also of a loyalty so unflinching that he can’t help but wonder what he could have possibly done to deserve it. 

He remembers a boy with flinty blue eyes, who had stared through him as if he were nothing special at all. He’s not sure he could pinpoint when that look changed: when they’d stopped looking through each other and started looking _at_ each other instead. He’s not sure when he started silently collecting the pieces of Merlin’s secret as if they were a treasure to be hidden carefully beneath his ribs until the time was right. 

Is the time right? He doesn’t know, can’t know for sure. But he does know that his father is dead and buried and gone: no longer a threat that hangs above Merlin’s head _(above his own head as well if he’s being honest)_. 

Is the time right? He considers it. Considers: Lancelot, dead. The grief still lingers in the air, in Gwen’s swollen eyes, in Merlin’s shaking hands when he enters the training grounds. Considers: all the things he has yet to say to Gwen. The difficult conversation they both know is coming and yet neither of them want to start. 

He considers all these things and decides that no, the time is not yet right. The pieces have clicked together but he doesn’t feel ready to bring this up. And so, when Merlin arrives later with his dinner, bruised eyes and shoulders heavy with the grief they still hold, Arthur says nothing at all. 

Takes the secret and lets it burrow under his bones, lets it make a sanctuary out of his body. Silently, he promises that he will find a way to fix this. To make them all happy. To keep Merlin _safe_.  


☀︎

  
The conversation with Gwen is both as difficult as he’d expected and the easiest conversation he’s ever had. There’s a faraway look in her eyes when she speaks, her eyes constantly straying to the treetops outside the window. He’s not sure if she hears even half of what he says. If he’s being honest, he’s not sure if he cares. 

It isn’t until she’s about to leave that she looks straight at him, her eyes wide and clear, something unrecognizable lurking in their depths. “Would you forgive her?” She asks, her voice steady despite her tense grip on the door handle. “If she asked for your forgiveness, would you forgive her?”

He doesn’t have to ask who _she_ is. Morgana is the only ghost who never seems to stop haunting them all. “I don’t know,” he sighs, pressing a hand to his face and wishing his heart didn’t ache so every time he thought of the girl he’d thought he knew. “I would want to, but I don’t know if I would be able to.” 

She nods as if she’d expected his answer and smiles gently at him, eyes darting once more to the treetops outside. She’s gone before he can decide if he should care about what she’s not saying. 

That night, he still doesn’t tell Merlin what he knows. Still doesn’t feel ready to put the secret out in the open. 

Instead he says nothing at all. Watches the fire’s light play off of Merlin’s cheekbones, and wonders what Merlin’s eyes look like when they’re burning gold. Wonders what they would look like, locked on his own, with no more secrets left between them  


☀︎

  
“What do you think of magic?” He asks one day as Merlin gathers up the breakfast dishes. Perhaps he should have expected the shattered plate on the floor or the blood draining from Merlin’s face, but it had somehow slipped his mind how jumpy Merlin got when magic was brought up. 

Even knowing the reason does nothing to stop the swell of indignation in his chest that Merlin should ever be afraid of anything at all. There’s an emotion washing across Merlin’s face that he’s always assumed was fear of magic, but now he’s beginning to wonder if it isn’t a fear of Arthur himself. Does Merlin fear him? Can he blame him if he does? 

“What do you mean?” Merlin asks, a thousand wary questions locked behind his eyes. 

Arthur licks his lips, considering the slant of Merlin’s cheekbones and the violence that he’s sure those hands have held. “Do you think it’s the magic that made Morgana the way she is?” He finally asks. It isn’t quite the question he wants to ask, but it is a question that haunts him at night. 

“Do you?” Merlin challenges, shoulders squared against Arthur’s answer. 

“No,” he admits quietly. He wishes the echo of Morgana’s lost laughter didn’t still ring through his head. “I wish it was as easy as that. Then perhaps there would be a chance of saving her.” 

“If you already knew the answer then why did you ask me?” Merlin goes back to clearing the table, already scowling down at the shattered plate on the floor. 

“No reason,” Arthur says. The fear of another person leaving him crawling up his throat until he feels as though he’ll choke on it. “No reason at all.”

If he’s learned anything over the years, it’s that when Merlin’s lips twist downwards, eyes narrowing ever so slightly, it means that he doesn’t believe Arthur at all. But he doesn’t call Arthur out on it, merely mutters something about clotpoles and prats as he cleans up the shattered plate. 

Arthur wonders, if this all goes terribly sideways, will his heart shatter, sharp and jagged as the broken plate? Can his shoulders bear the grief of losing another person? Will his shoulders ever be ready to bear the grief of losing Merlin?

_No. Never. Not in this lifetime. Not in the next._  


☀︎

  
There’s a town _(because of course there is)_ , and a child with magic _(because of course he would be faced with yet another choice between his people or his king)_. There’s a battle and a villager with a sword to her neck and threats being screamed _(that is to say: it’s another normal day for Merlin)_. 

There’s a child who screams so loud and so long that Merlin can _feel_ the sound echo through his bones, can feel his own magic rise in response to her panicked rush of power. The bandits fly back, Arthur’s eyes slip close, and Merlin drops from the tree _(his stomach already six feet underground)_. 

It’s just another day, another godforsaken day where he’ll be forced to either let one of his own people be persecuted or turn on his king. Another day, another impossible choice.

It’s just another day, until Arthur Pendragon kneels in front of the shaking child and says, _No, no one is going to die because they have magic. Not ever again._   


☀︎

  
He doesn’t think he’ll ever be ready to confront Merlin about his secret. Doesn’t think that there will ever be a time he’s ready and willing to lay his heart on the table between them, nothing but his blind trust in one man keeping it safe. 

He will never be ready, and so perhaps it is for the best when his hand is forced. 

There’s a village and a young girl with straw-blonde hair who screams and screams and screams when her mother is nearly killed by bandits. She screams so long and so loud that Arthur finds he isn’t even surprised when her eyes light up _(with that damning, damning gold)_. The wind whips around him, never truly touching him, and yet, the bandits are all flung violently back, the unmistakable sound of bones snapping a testament to the violence. 

He catches Gwaine closing his eyes in defeat, a tired, resigned look flashing across his face in the blink of an eye. He catches Leon pressing a shaking hand to his face for the span of a heartbeat, then squaring his shoulders and meeting Arthur’s eyes evenly. 

How long has he ignored the signs of men who don’t believe in the orders they’re following? How long has he looked past the signs in an effort to ignore what’s always been right in front of his face? 

The girl crumples to the ground, sobbing in relief even as her mother rushes to her, fear stark on her face, and Arthur’s stomach twists unpleasantly. He meets Merlin’s eyes as he drops out of a tree and feels certainty settle in his bones. 

There will never be a better time than now to take that first step. Than _here_ and now: the sobbing girl on the ground, her mother doing her best to shield her. Than here and _now_ : fear and grief and fury shining bright in Merlin’s eyes even as he stands silent, waiting for Arthur to give the order he’s sure is to come. 

“Sir Leon, Sir Gwaine,” he says slowly, measuring each word and never breaking eye contact with Merlin. “Ensure that the bandits are secured in case they wake up. Sir Elyan, check the villagers for injuries. The rest of you, scout the perimeter. Make sure there aren’t any more bandits lingering.” 

A beat of silence, all eyes heavy on the back of his head, and then a slow murmur of assent as they all go off to do as he’s assigned. 

“What’s your name?” He asks as gently as he can, sheathing his sword and moving forwards to a crouch in front of the girl and her mother. 

“Ella,” she chokes out, the word muffled by her mother’s shoulder, and he wonders whether it speaks to the loyalty of his people or to their fear that her mother does nothing but hug her tighter, not once trying to run. 

“That was a good thing you did, Ella, saving your mother like that. It was very brave of you.” Out of the corner of his eye he can see Merlin pale, one hand reaching out to support himself on the tree, and he knows, he knows it’s nearly time. If not tonight, when they return to the castle. 

There will never be a better time. 

“You’re not going to execute me?” Ella whispers, hope and fear warring for dominance in her eyes, the sun catching their honey brown color and leaving only a pale imitation of the shining gold that had been in her eyes earlier. “I’m not going to die?”

He narrowly resists the urge to close his eyes, grief for his people welling up through his breastbone and leaving his bones creaking from the weight of it. He’s failed his people for too long. “No,” he says quietly, pressing a gentle hand to her mother’s shoulder and smiling as reassuringly as he can. “No, no one is going to die because they have magic. Never again.”

He supposes he shouldn’t be surprised when, out of the corner of his eye, he sees Merlin crumple to the ground in a dead faint.  


☀︎

  
Merlin’s always told himself: when the time is right, when it’s _safe_ , he’ll tell Arthur about all the things he’s done. He’ll tell Arthur every secret, every lie he’s ever spoken. He will place everything he’s held back for so long at Arthur’s feet like a penance and hope that he’s judged worthy of forgiveness. 

He’s always told himself this. He shouldn’t be surprised that this also does not go as planned. Shouldn’t be surprised that the universe seems determined to rip every one of his choices out of his hands as if they were never his to begin with. 

He shouldn’t be surprised, but Arthur stares at him with Merlin’s own secret heavy in his eyes, and the rage that lights in his stomach surprises him nonetheless.   


☀︎

  
Merlin stays unconscious just long enough for Arthur to move him into a bed at the nearby inn. If Arthur didn’t intimately know what Merlin’s breathing was like when he was unconscious, he would have sworn that Merlin was faking it just to get Arthur to carry him. 

Regardless, Arthur shoves Gwaine roughly out of the room, ignoring the raised eyebrow he gets. Merlin gasps awake mere seconds after he closes the door. 

“Breathe,” he murmurs, dropping a hopefully comforting hand on Merlin’s shoulder. He jokes lightly, “I always knew you were a girl, but I can’t believe you actually fainted.” 

Merlin stares back at him with wide, clear eyes, the sky caught in his gaze. Blue and bright and so endless that Arthur wonders if he’s always found himself wanting to get lost in their never-ending depths. 

_“You know,”_ Merlin chokes out, a hoarse whisper that sounds less like a statement and more like an accusation. 

He sighs. Of course Merlin would figure it out immediately. Arthur’s heart has always been a glass window for Merlin to peer through, never the sturdy wooden door that seems to deter everyone else. “I know,” he agrees, squeezing Merlin’s shoulder lightly and fighting back a frown when Merlin shrugs his hand off. 

“How long?” Merlin asks lowly, anger sparking in his eyes, and for a moment Arthur is sure they flash gold. “How long have you known?” 

“I think I’ve always known,” he says calmly, not liking the way Merlin’s mouth pulls tight. “But it clicked for me after we got back from the Isle of the Blessed.” 

Merlin stares unblinkingly at him for a long moment, lips pressed tight, hands clutching the sheets, and then stumbles out of the bed. Arthur reaches for him, but he shoves him away. 

_“Don’t,”_ he’s backing away and yes, that is definitely anger in his eyes. Arthur is sure of it now. “Why didn’t you say anything?” 

“Why didn’t you?” Arthur asks, raising an eyebrow in challenge. He won’t apologize for taking his time, to make sure he was ready for this conversation. He has many things he wants to apologize for, but this is not one of them. 

“Why didn’t I,” Merlin echoes mockingly, a harsh laugh bursting out of him. The sound is darker than anything Arthur has ever heard escape him. “Ah, yes, because I’ve _always_ wanted to be arrested for something I can’t help.” He laughs again, mocking and loud, and Arthur feels something cold slip down his spine. 

“Did you really think I’d have you arrested for it?” He asks lowly, unsure if this is just Merlin speaking out of anger or what he truly thinks. Does he truly think that of Arthur? 

“You’ve had me arrested for less,” Merlin snaps back, mouth twisting, his anger held in clenched fists, and the worst part, the worst part of it all—

The worst part is that Arthur cannot deny this. “Yes,” he sighs, weary and heart-sick. “Yes, I suppose I have, and for that I am truly sorry.” 

Merlin’s expression flickers. The anger sliding off his face, there and gone just as quickly as a summer storm. “You don’t have to be sorry,” he mutters, sagging against the door and rubbing a hand over his face. “I know you were only doing what you had to.” _‘What Uther ordered you too,’_ he leaves unsaid. 

“I’m still sorry,” Arthur says, dropping heavily onto the bed. He considers the way Merlin’s hands are visibly shaking and slowly extends his own hand, heart lodged in his throat. “Sit with me?”

Merlin stares at him for a long moment, eyes conflicted and hands still shaking. “No,” he says, voice ringing with finality. He pushes himself off the door, squaring his shoulders. “No, not now. Your knights need you to help them clean up the mess down there, and I need to talk to Ella, but—” he swallows, eyes bright with an emotion that Arthur’s never seen, “—but when we return to Camelot, I’m sure we’ll have much to talk about.”

He’s out the door, footsteps racing down the stairs, before Arthur can respond. “When we return to Camelot,” Arthur echoes. The words bounce off the walls, no one there to receive them. 

But of course, as their luck would always seem to have it, they don’t make it back to Camelot before conflict finds them again. And the last thing Arthur remembers is the feeling of white hot heat piercing clean through his armor, and Merlin _screaming, screaming, scream—_  


☀︎

  
It isn’t until later _(after the screaming and the accusations and the heart-pounding fear that this would finally be the time he lost Arthur)—_

It isn’t until later, Arthur tucked in bed and _safe_ , that Merlin finds himself staring out the window into the courtyard, finally identifying the emotion still crawling over his skin as _rage_. Bright, burning, blistering rage that Arthur had held Merlin’s magic secret for so long and not once wondered how it would weigh on him when the truth finally came out. It was not Arthur’s secret to keep. It wasn’t for him to reveal the truth that Merlin’s kept hidden for so long. And yet, there he had knelt, the truth shining bright in his eyes as if Merlin would not be able to pick it out immediately. 

It wasn’t his to tell, not even to Merlin, and he thinks that if he tried - if he only tried - he thinks he could hate Arthur for taking this away from him. It was supposed to be his _choice_ when the secret finally came out. Even if it came down to a choice between Arthur living or dying _(between which there is no choice at all)_ , it was still supposed to be his decision to make. His burden to release, his secret to give away. 

He thinks he could hate Arthur for this. The rage at having yet another decision torn from him makes his skin itch and his throat burn, and he wants to scream the castle walls down with it. Wants to scream until there’s nothing left on the horizon but his own burning rage. 

There’s the sound of rustling sheets from behind him but he holds still, keeping his eyes locked on the courtyard. He’s not sure he can yet find any words inside of himself that aren’t rage soaked and bitter. 

He doesn’t often find himself resenting his destiny _(not anymore, not since that first bitter tinged year)_ , but it’s as if a deep well of resentment he hadn’t previously been aware of has overflowed and is now washing its way through him. Was it really so much to ask of the universe to leave him this one choice? 

“Merlin?” Arthur calls softly. There’s the sound of bare feet padding across the floor. “Merlin? What happened?”

“You were stabbed. As usual.” He answers shortly. The footsteps stop for a tense second, then slowly begin moving towards him again. 

“Funny, I don’t feel as if I was stabbed,” Arthur says lightly, stopping just behind Merlin. His reflection in the window is staring pensively at Merlin’s, and the fire licking at his bones burns just a little bit brighter at the sight. 

“I’m sure you can guess why, _sire_.” 

Arthur doesn’t reply, eyes still locked on the back of Merlin’s head, his lower lip caught firmly between his teeth. 

“No guesses?” Merlin asks after the silence has dragged on long enough for his skin to begin prickling uncomfortably. 

“I was rather hoping you would tell me?” Arthur murmurs softly. And just like that, the well of resentment and anger bubbling in his veins seems to dry up immediately. 

Merlin’s anger can withstand many things. But the sight of Arthur, quiet and watchful with apologies and soft words dripping from his lips... well, he doesn’t know how he can be expected to withstand that. The anger dries up just as quickly as it had in the inn when Arthur had stared at him with solemn eyes and said _I’m sorry_. That’s all he’s ever really wanted. Just Arthur looking at him and acknowledging what Merlin’s dealt with him for him, from him, because of him. 

“I have magic,” he whispers, turning to face Arthur. “I have magic, and I use it for you. Always for you.”

He keeps his chin tilted up, his spine straight, and a storm stares back. Arthur’s eyes as dark and wild as the sea. 

“Thank you,” his king says, the words loaded with gratitude. “Thank you for all of it, for all the things I’ve figured out on my own and all the things you’ll have to tell me about. _Thank you_.” 

The air between them feels heavy with all the stories still untold. Arthur grips his chin, tilting Merlin’s head up ever so slightly. “Will you show me something?” He asks, nothing but curiosity and that roaring ocean in his eyes. 

Merlin laughs, the sound scraping his throat when it tears from him. “I was going to be mad at you, you absolute ass. I was going to be _so_ mad at you.” He flings a hand out, wordlessly re-lighting the fire. He watches Arthur’s face carefully for any sign of fear, of deception, but all he sees is a burning heat that scalds his skin in a way that is both the same as his earlier rage and yet nothing like it at all. 

“I do wonder,” Arthur murmurs, the words barely loud enough for Merlin to hear, “how many life debts I owe you?”

“I lost count years ago,” he replies, a harmless lie. The number is carved into his head but he finds himself hoarding that secret away. At least for now. “But you can make it all up to me rather easily,” he says, swallowing and taking a step forward, praying that he hasn’t misread the intent that seems to be in Arthur’s eyes. 

Arthur raises a single eyebrow, a smirk pulling at his mouth. “Can I?” He drawls softly, shifting his hand from Merlin’s chin until he’s cupping Merlin’s entire cheek. The heat of the touch burns through him. 

“All I ask,” Merlin softly whispers, “is a kiss from a king.”  


☀︎

  
“I’m going to repeal the law,” Arthur says some time later as they’re laying in the bed, his chin on Merlin’s head. 

It takes Merlin a moment to really comprehend the statement at all because his head is still filled with the feeling of Arthur’s lips against his. He pulls away to look Arthur in the eyes, heart racing. “What?”

“I’m going to repeal the law,” Arthur repeats, propping himself up on his elbows. His voice is steady. “But I want you to know, I’m not doing it _just_ for you. I’m doing it because the law is _wrong_. Because it’s hurting my people.”

Merlin chokes on what sounds suspiciously like a sob, pressing both hands to his mouth and choking on the feeling of relief suddenly crashing down onto his shoulders. _He doesn’t have to hide anymore._

“Even if the law was right,” Arthur says quietly, sitting up and curling his hands around the delicate bones of Merlin’s ankles, “even if magic truly was evil, I’d do whatever I must to never see that fear on your face again.” 

Merlin opens his mouth, wanting to respond, but all that comes out is a choked sob. Arthur’s eyes crease unhappily at the noise, his hands sliding up Merlin’s calves, up his thighs, over the dip of his hips. His hands slide up to cup Merlin’s face and, in a voice so gentle that it wraps like a well worn blanket around Merlin’s shoulders, he murmurs, “I’m doing it for my people. But if I had to, I would do it only for you.”

“I would destroy kingdoms for you,” Merlin chokes out, knowing that it’s true, knowing that he’ll do anything Arthur asks if he asks it in that voice. “All of my magic, all of it is for you.”

“I would never ask that of you,” Arthur says through pursed lips, eyes steady.

Merlin presses a shaking hand to Arthur’s cheek, wondering if he’s ever truly known what hope tasted like before this, “It’s because you would never ask that I offer it.” 

Arthur catches Merlin’s hand and presses his lips to the inside of his wrist, his eyes so blue and so very, very soft. He presses chapped lips to the fluttering of Merlin’s pulse and Merlin feels a garden of flowers take root in his lungs, brought to life by the sunshine suddenly pouring down his throat, fed to him from Arthur’s lips. 

There’s a lifetime stretched before him. And for the first time, Arthur’s skin warm under his fingers, his king touching him as if he’s something to be treasured, for the first time, he finds himself thinking of their destiny as if it’s something to be thought of with hope. As if it’s a gift that’s been guiding him to this moment, the moonbeams spilling across the sheets and his shoulders free of fear. 

For the first time, he _believes_ in the future shining golden in front of them.   


☀︎

  



End file.
